


but whoever cares, nobody cares like you do

by melfice



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melfice/pseuds/melfice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Don't get attached to him,' Malik tells himself, but doesn't listen to a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but whoever cares, nobody cares like you do

  __

'Don't get attached,' Malik tells himself, but doesn't listen to a word.

 

 

\- - -

 

Altair is a whirlwind, all power and recklessness without control. His energy is infectious, his cockiness infuriating, and everything about him is a challenge Malik itches to take. They are similar in age when Altair joins them, and it's fewer and fewer of them these days who make it into the ranks. He remembers thinking, _'you won't make it here_.'

 

It takes a long time before he looks past the smug smirks, the reckless behavior; it takes a lot longer than he thought it would. He stands on the wooden platform, birds casting shadows from overhead, and he stares down at the distant bed of hay they seems four times too small to accommodate his body. His palms are sweating, his calves painfully tense, and his entire body feels almost too rigid to be capable of propelling himself from the perch he stands on. It is contagious and it spread amongst all of them, until it's four of them standing at the ledge, all petrified and unmoving, all unable to take a leap of faith.

 

Altair breathes in sharply and, despite the tenseness in his shoulders, the edge of his lips twist up into a challenge. He taps the heel of his boot against the wood to loosen his muscles and asks Malik, “Staying up here with the birds then?”

 

Malik wants to sneer back at him, but he settles on an unfriendly smile and gestures forward with both hands. “By all means, Ibn-La'Ahad, if you are so brave – please let us follow your example.”

 

What he expects is for Altair to become indignant, he expects for him to stiffen in anger, but he does not expect him to move. He never expects him to jump, boots pushing him from the edge, arms spread, falling towards the hay at the bottom of the cliff. The flash of white, that vanishes before his eyes, is enough to push Malik – it is enough for him to cast aside his fears and lead him off of the platform.

 

The air in his lungs leaves him when he hits the hay, rushes out of him in shock and excitement; he's still alive and he's not the last one to jump.

 

Altair's ankle is broken, his pride hurt worse, but Malik doesn't rub it in when he offers him a shoulder to lean on for the walk back.

 

\- - -

 

' _You are in this alone_ ,' Altair reminds himself, but he's wrong.

 

\- - -

 

The rain is too hard to see anything and it pours around him in torrents. He tastes blood that he can't see. His hand presses against his mouth, against the open wound trailing down his face that won't close. There's a dagger clutched in his other hand, useless. He doesn't realize his entire body is shaking until a steady hand grabs his elbow, until Malik is at his side with his fingers digging into his skin.

 

“What has happened?!” he demands, though the ferocity of his voice, the urgency of it is drowned by the sound of the storm. His free hand pulls Altair's away from his face, his eyes widening at what he finds there. “What has happened, Altair?”

 

Altair feels ashamed, feels angry, feels embarrassed. He jerks away as best he can with Malik's grip so tight and presses his fingers back against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

 

“He got away,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain.

 

Malik shakes his head, disbelieving. “What do you mean he got away?”

 

Altair gestures wildly with his free hand at the mountain landscape behind them, hidden by the wind and the rain. He is out of patience and his pride is exhausted. “He's gone! I let him surprise me – I should've been more aware, I should've- He saw my face, he, he _saw_ -”

 

His words choke off, becoming strangled in his throat, because for the first time in his life he is absolutely terrified. Terrified that he's failed, that everything is over. The wound on his face aches, but it is nothing compared to how stiff his bones feel in his skin, how sick to his stomach he feels.

 

' _I can't go back_ ,' he thinks to himself, and the blood in his veins feels cold.

 

Two strong hands grip his shoulders, force him to turn back around, and they are steady. Malik is a strange source of stability, his expression stern and his voice set when he says, “We're going to find him.”

 

“He's _gone_ , Malik-!”

 

“No! Focus, Altair. We are going to find him. Show me where he went – _show me_ , quickly!”

 

The rains have passed by the time they return to Masyaf. The scar Altair gets that day does not fade.

 

\- - -

 

'I will not assist you more than I am required,' Malik snaps, but Altair isn't the one who needs help.

 

\- - -

 

There is little difficulty sneaking into the brothel, in the western corner of Jerusalem, but the informant he is seeking finds him first.

 

The doorway he walks past is open, the smell of sweat and ash suddenly strong, and his eyes are still focusing on the hallway he is in when there is suddenly a powerful grip on his upper arm that jerks him bodily into the room. There is instantly warmth against him where there shouldn't be. He tries to pull away, tries to orient himself, but the grip on his arm tightens. He can twist enough to see his captor, though the man's appearance is completely foreign to him. The sweet smell of wine on ragged breath is overpowering.

 

“Took you long enough,” the stranger slurs, his free hand fumbling with the front of Malik's robes, as though he fits the description of the slender, beautiful courtesans employed in the house. “I told her to send you up an hour ago.”

 

The man's face is rough, weathered, and littered with scars. His beard scratches unpleasantly against Malik's neck as the man breathes in against the skin there. Briefly he wonders if this is the man he is looking for, even though the description he had been given does not match the scars are identical-

 

Malik's body twists under his command, sharp pain splintering up his arm as it turns against the rest of his body – still caught, and his knee connects violently with the man's unguarded kidney. There's the exhale of breath, sharp and surprised, and the grip on Malik's arm lessens enough that he is able to jerk free – able to turn again, elbow cracking into the back of the man's head as he doubles over, wheezing. The man's body hits the floor with a 'thud', heavy and useless, though still alive.

 

There is a shadow that blocks the doorway that Malik doesn't see – doesn't notice until there is a hand around his throat, until there are fingers crushing his windpipe and he's gasping for air. The man he attacked is still on the ground. Malik's vision swims as he tries to focus on the newcomer that holds him; the two men are similar in appearance, similar in scarring, and this is the man he was looking for – this man is the target.

 

The wall is at his back, legs pinned and useless, and his one hand is useless, clawing without success at the two curled around his neck. The grip does not budge. His mind tells him not to panic, but it is difficult when the edges of his vision begin to blur and his breathing turns to voiceless gasps.

 

The spots and the blurs in his vision are not so blinding that he cannot make out the flash of white – the flash of Altair's sleeve, as his fellow assassin's fist connects soundly with the skull of the man holding him. His other hand takes the man's arm and pulls him backwards, causes him to stumble onto the now bloodied floorboards and crumble to his knees. Air rushes back to Malik as he slides to the floor, legs suddenly unable to hold him, his vision slowly clearing.

 

Both of the mercenaries are scrambling, trying to move, trying to reorganize to defend themselves, and Altair is almost methodical in his disposal of them. The leader of the two, the stronger of the two, is bleeding profusely from the side of his head when he struggles to his feet – struggles to his feet only to have Altair grab the back of his head by a fistful of hair, to slam his already fractured skull into the wall beside where Malik rest. He turns without missing a beat, boots sliding across the dusty floor, and grabs the other man in much the same fashion. There is a sick crack as the man's face connects with Altair's knee, before he shoves the crumpled man back onto the floor where he lays motionless.

 

Malik rubs at his throat with two fingers, his elbow resting on his knee where he sits on the floor. He stares at the two unmoving bodies at his feet and despite the hoarseness in his voice, manages to say, “We needed them _alive_ , Altair. They had information. How do you expect-”

 

“I'll manage without it,” is the sharp reply from Altair, and Malik watches the younger assassin clench and unclench his fists, as though testing that they still work; as though the men had provided little outlet for the anger coursing through his veins. He offers Malik a bruised hand, which Malik stares at as though it is a snake, but reluctantly takes it all the same.

 

“If you think this makes us even,” Malik begins, but does not finish. Altair will not look him in the eye. His demeanor is quiet, shameful – almost as though he were the one who had required saving from two otherwise meaningless thugs.

 

They say nothing else on the return to the bureau.

\- - -

 

'Trust only yourself,' Altair advises himself, but it's too late.

\- - -

The world is spinning. The ground is cold in the bureau, cold and solid, and the chill seeping into his burning skin is almost unbearable. Everything around him moves, in a haze of shapes and shadows, like a crowd of people unable to sit still. It all moves around him in circles, until his mind aches and his eyes are sore and he cannot keep them open any longer.

 

There is a cold compress on his face, cold fingers undoing the clasps on his robes and armor, but his body is on fire and the compress does little to help. It feels as though he has been laying on a bed of coals, sweat beading on his forehead and doing absolutely nothing to cool him. He clings to consciousness by a thread, eyes opened to slits so that he may stay awake but may also ignore the edges blurring around him. The coolness of the stone is comforting; the fingers working over him are rough but purposeful.

 

He feels as though in a haze, with words hovering around and near him that he cannot pick out. There are voices, some perhaps his own. There is a shift, his body moving, only ever so slightly, and the stifling cloth of his robes is carefully removed from his person and discarded to the side. The stone is brightly cold against the bare skin of his back, sends chills traveling through his arms and his legs, and it eases a burning that won't stop. The hands that are holding him are warmer than they were, as though heated by touching his fevered skin, and he doesn't know if he wants them to stay or go.

 

There is a light shining near his face, from a lantern set some feet away, and he stares up at the blurred shadows it casts along the ceiling and tries to breathe. It feels as though he is suffocating, as though his lungs are shrinking into his body; it feels like the harder he tries to pull in air the more it escapes him.

 

Something cool and hard presses against his lips – a glass, a vial, something – and he can't resist the liquid that suddenly pours down his throat. It almost chokes him, settles thickly into his throat, but there's a pressure holding him down and a hand against his neck that encourages him to swallow. It is easier to swallow than to breathe and impossible to do both at once. The cold compress leaves and then returns, cooler, and he takes in a shaky, brittle breath.

 

The memories he has of the night are in pieces, blurry and haphazardly strung together. There is a faint memory of tripping across rooftops, of stumbling across dirt and stone, of somehow knowing where to go without being able to see. He remembers repeating the words in his head a hundred times as he made his way to the bureau – _poison, poison, you've been poisoned, you've-_ but when he had fallen into the entrance, Malik standing above him, he had been too far gone to say anything at all.

 

The silence that permeates the air now is a sign of how far gone he is. It is a sign that Malik is tense, that he will not demand to know what happened, will not cast blame. The silence is worse because it means Malik does not know how the night will end.

 

Altair breathes in again, shuddering and between clenching teeth, and tastes blood on his tongue.

 

\- - -

 

'Your recklessness is going to get us both killed,' Malik warns, but he bandages Altair's wounds all the same.

\- - -

Altair never asks for help. He binds his own wounds with dusty scraps of cloth torn from his sleeves, or from the hem of his pants, and he wraps them too tight and removes them too soon. Everything scars without proper attention, turns into a myriad of mistakes that he won't forget.

 

His recent trip to the bureau, stricken with fever and delirious from poison, is the only time he stumbles in and trusts in Malik to fix him. It is the only time he asks Malik for help, but it is not the only time that he gets it.

 

There is a light shining down from the entrance that is hazy and dim from where they stand at the wooden counter. Altair sits atop the counter with his tunic in his hands and his attention turned to the floor. The wounds are as clean as they'll ever be, the water in the bowl beside them rusty in color from his blood; the wounds are still red and angry and fresh. Every inch of skin that is uncovered reveals more of Altair's mistakes, reveals he penance for throwing himself into blades and danger without any consideration that the life he has now is the only one he'll get.

 

He is silent through Malik wrapping the clean linen around his torso, silent and still even when Malik's hand is not gentle against the lacerations on his skin. Altair had come into the bureau with a bloodstained feather, with bloodstained robes and hands, and he hadn't asked for help – perhaps doesn't want it, but Malik won't let him leave. There's anger and frustration and impatience, but there's also concern that he can't bite back, that he can't swallow.

 

Malik wants to ask who Altair had to bandage his wounds, who he had to pick up the pieces, when Malik had lost that concern. There had been a time Malik would have rather seen him pooled in his own blood than help him and he wonders who was there for Altair during that time, even if some part of him already realizes the answer is ' _no one_ ' and he won't ask because he doesn't want to hear it aloud.

 

The fading white and tan latticework across Altair's skin is old and new. The traces along his back are uneven underneath Malik's callused fingers. He smooths his thumb across one he thinks he can remember, across one he thinks he may have seen but that he cannot put a place or name to. There are dozens more patterning Altair's skin that he's never seen before, that he wants to know _where_ and _how_ and _who_ but won't ask.

 

It isn't the tenseness underneath his hand that he notices first. The first thing he notices is the sharp intake of breath that is almost too soft to reach his ears; the second he notices is the shiver that runs down Altair's spine and underneath his wandering fingers. It stops everything – stops his fingers, stops his eyes moving from scar to scar. It stops him from doing anything.

 

Malik hears his own voice in his head, asking over and over again, ' _What are you doing? What are you doing?_ '

 

He doesn't remember his hand from Altair's back. His heart is beating too loudly against his chest, without his approval or his permission, and he doesn't realize he's waiting for something – for anything – until he feels Altair breathing shakily again underneath his palm.Altair's own hands are clenching the tunic in his hands tighter, his knuckles pale, but it's the reddish hue tinting the tips of his ears that catches and keeps Malik's attention above all else.

 

It's bewilderment that forces Malik to pull his hand away, to stare at his brother-in-arms, but his movements break the tense atmosphere over the room and Altair slides off of the counter before any questions can be voiced. He pulls his white uniform back on, fingers tugging the hood safely back over his eyes before Malik can read anything in them. He buckles up his belt around his waist, has his daggers put away, and is two strides towards the entrance before Malik's mind catches up to speed.

 

Malik doesn't follow, doesn't say anything. He's too confused, too lost to know where to start. Instead he clenches and unclenches his fingers, like he can still feel something beneath them, and he stares at the empy room.

 

\- - -

 

'Stop,' Altair demands of himself, digging his nails into his palms, but his heart would rather be broken than listen.

\- - -

 

Altair doesn't breathe – can't breathe – can only tense when Malik steps closer, steps in-between his legs. The wooden counter in the bureau is digging into his back, his boots hitting the base when there is no more room for him to back away.

 

“Malik,” he manages to say, but his voice is strangled even to his own ears. “What-”

 

The breath against his neck is close, too close, and Altair cannot see the lips near his skin but he can _feel_ them. The words are light, airy, knowing. “Tell me 'no,' Altair.”

 

Altair's breath comes back to him in a rush when those lips finally press against his neck. The hand holding his left wrist tightens, holds it against the counter in an iron grip. Lips trail up his neck and to his jaw, leaving a trail that burns the entire way. Altair opens his mouth to speak, to say something – anything, but his words come out voiceless when Malik's hips press into his. The hand that isn't being held, the one clutching at Malik's shoulder, curls tighter in his robes until his knuckles turn white.

 

All of Malik's movements are slow and calculated, as though he has all the time in the world to tear Altair down like this. The grip on his wrist is tight, but his thumb moves in slow circles against the smooth skin there. Malik's nose brushes against the edge of his ear, lips following suit, and Altair feels chill sweep down his spine.

 

He feels the smile against his skin, “Altair....”

 

It is the bright sun above Jerusalem that greets him suddenly, shining down into the garden where he lays by the fountain, and it wakes him abruptly. His eyes open wide, stare at the latticework above his head. His breath is heavy and even.

 

He can hear Malik moving around in the other room, shuffling through scrolls and maps, and the sound makes his already taut muscles tense tighter. It feels as though he has woken up somewhere he is not allowed to be, as though his thoughts and dreams are patterns on the wall that Malik might walk in and see projected around him.

 

Altair turns onto his side and breathes slowly.

 

His wrist tingles and his heart beats loudly against his ribcage.

 

\- - -

 

“Masyef is lost without someone to guide it,” Malik tells him, the night they honor their fallen brothers – those driven mad by the Apple of Eden, “but you needn't do it alone.”

 

\- - -

 

The wine is dry, new and cheap, but Altair doesn't know what to look for – only drinks when it comes to him or when he takes it – and the burn in his throat is all he's after regardless. The wine is a deep red and the dark glass bottle is cool against his palm as he drinks from it. The night air is chilled, a new moon hovering overhead as he sits on the rooftop and loses himself in the sea of constellations.

 

Masyef is obscenely quiet the days – perhaps still reeling from deceit and treachery. It welcomes Altair with open arms, with respect, but he is too burdened, too alight with energy and ideas to stay for long. He travels too much these days, is away for far too long, and he forgets how much he misses the night and the sky above his home.

 

He hears the footsteps long before Malik steps out onto the rooftop.

 

“I see your master plan now,” Malik teases, as he moves to sit beside him. “Leave me to scribe and drink all of my wine whilst I am distracted.”

 

Altair's lips curve into a smile around the mouth of the bottle. “It is a good plan.”

 

The answering chuckle is warm and familiar.

 

“You have always been awful at sharing,” Malik tells him. He grabs the bottle by the neck, fingers disentangling Altair's own from the glass, and he pulls it towards him. Altair turns to face him, to regard him, and the retort on the tip of his tongue dissipates when Malik's mouth meets him halfway. Three fingers hold the bottle and two slide against the exposed skin on his neck.

 

Altair thinks he will never become accustomed to the way his breathing halts in Malik's presence, consistently hindered by the heart stuck in his throat – though he swears he still feels it beating madly against his chest. It is only a press of chapped lips against his own, only a mouth opening slowly underneath his, but it is tangible and warm and there is a smile beneath it he wishes to memorize.

 


End file.
